Chapter 30 #2
She snorted in amusement. ‘I had to learn I wasn’t infallible. Sometimes I think Colin’s the other side of the coin,’ she mused.
‘How?’
‘He puts so much pressure on himself for others and he doesn’t even realise that’s what makes him a leader.
I’m not painting him as a saint – not by a long shot.
But he’d do anything for those guys – for Dad, even though I know their relationship isn’t the best. He’s got his fucking heart on his sleeve. ’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘If his heart is kind of shaped like his dick, then maybe.’
She laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘He thinks he’s such a big guy. But what he says and what he does are two different things. I thought you might have worked that out.’
I was too struck by her statement to respond and she continued without waiting for me to find my words.
‘He plays the impulsive delinquent, but Colin grew up years ago. He just hasn’t noticed yet – hasn’t accepted it.’
I had to remind myself firmly she wasn’t talking about his feelings – his attitude to relationships. All this stuff was getting mixed up in my mind, as though the next two weeks would make all the difference to his future – and mine.
‘If he’s all grown up, then he needs to stick to the strategy today,’ I said lightly, hoping to change the subject. ‘He needs a quiet ride in the peloton, saving his strength for the mountains.’
So, of course the impulsive delinquent was in the first breakaway, following Nellie when he jumped onto the wheel of an attacking rider from another team. We all held our breath as the gap between the breakaway and the peloton widened to five seconds, then ten, then twenty.
The rest of the contenders for the general classification, the overall win, remained safely in the peloton, assuming the superior power of the large group of cyclists would reel in the breakaway later in the day. It was the most likely outcome.
‘Farking hell, boy! He’ll be the bloomin’ death of me! What does he think he’s doing?’ I heard Tony before I saw him, coming up the steps into the bus, his eyes on the TV screen.
I knew Tony was never allowed on team radio and I now had first-hand experience of why. I studied Tony as he sat glued to the footage I could barely make myself watch, remembering all of Colin’s comments, how he’d make a joke rather than admit he was afraid of disappointing his dad.
Tears were gathering behind my eyes and I did not like this at all. Was he just acting out, or had he considered this move, even though it was not the strategy for the day?
‘I told you!’ Lori said, pointing wildly at the screen. ‘Baby brother can’t keep it in.’
My anxiety levels only built as the stage wore on and the breakaway remained out in front.
Tony’s grumbling had quieted as though he’d at least accepted that this would be good publicity, even if Colin was wrecked tomorrow.
I should have been posting more content, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it and the followers would be more interested in clips of the race right now anyway.
His place in the breakaway meant a lot of coverage of the sponsors on the jersey – and a body that felt far too familiar to me.
Hunched over the bike, the cords of muscle in his calves and forearms standing out in high contrast, he was like music in motion, pushing it up the climbs and sweeping down the descents with precision.
I heard over the radio when he managed to accept a musette from one of the swannies along the route, but in the breakaway there was never much time to sit back and rest, so he guzzled calories whenever he could, his body slowly depleting its reserves as he kept pumping through the long kilometres.
With 30 km to go, the peloton started picking up speed, the other teams eager to catch the tiring breakaway.
Nellie dropped back, exhausted after hours of lending his slipstream to Colin.
Two of the other riders couldn’t take the speed either, leaving only three in the breakaway and forcing Colin to take his turn at the front.
The chances weren’t good, but no matter how many times I told myself that, my heart leaped and I imagined him doing it, finishing on the podium and proving everyone wrong.
The gap between the peloton and the breakaway ticked downwards along with the kilometres.
Two minutes, then 80 seconds, 40, 20. The three riders out front were working hard, shooting along the country roads at 30 miles per hour.
Colin’s heart rate was sky-high, setting off all the monitoring equipment.
The race footage was astonishing as the riders approached Guérande, the twisting, curving peloton moving across the haphazard grid of coastal ponds where sea salt crystallised to be harvested, the water a mirror for the afternoon sky and the low rays of the sun.
‘Come on,’ I muttered through gritted teeth, still horrified but now unable to look away, annoyed when the footage switched back to the peloton.
The salt flats disappeared, replaced by red-roofed houses on the outskirts of the town. After navigating a tight turn, the breakaway powered into the curve along the mediaeval city wall, followed by the peloton, mere seconds behind them.
I toppled out of the bus behind Lori and Seb and we all rushed for the finish line. Seb had the footage running on his phone and I stumbled on the cobblestones, my gaze locked on the small screen. He held out an arm for me and I took it without even thanking him.
I couldn’t breathe. The image was striking: Colin and the other two in the foreground with the platoon of riders storming at them in the background.
My fingernails digging into my palms, I was wound up so tight, I wondered when I would break.
The commentator’s voice grew impassioned as the gap persisted. Any second now—
My phone rang.
The annoying buzz drew my frustrated gaze and I would have silenced it and ignored it, except I caught sight of the name ‘Bill Weekes’ and then I froze. When the big boss called, one didn’t refuse it.
Letting go of Seb, I connected the call. My gaze strayed back to the view of the race, a shot from above showing three vulnerable figures pedalling for their lives, the commentator’s voice tinny over the small speaker.
‘Hi there, Bill. What can I do for you?’
‘Leesa! How’re you doing? Is now a good time?’
I opened my mouth to say no, it really wasn’t, but he continued as though the question had been rhetorical.
‘I wanted to catch you personally before I send this email.’
Those were some of the only words capable of slicing through my distracted haze. The sounds of the admin and support staff milling around the finish line dimmed to background noise. ‘An email?’
‘Yes, in light of the recent stats on the PowerFuel account – and a rather glowing endorsement I received—’
‘Can they hang on for the last 300 m? A heroic effort from the breakaway today. Nearly 150 km alone, draining all of their reserves. To be caught on the finish line? It would be heartbreaking. But it hasn’t happened yet. They’re still out front!’
The commentator’s tone had reached fever pitch. Lori grabbed my arm and tugged me with her as she found a spot with a view of the finish line and there they were, Colin and the other two, small specks in the distance. Just a few more yards—
Bill’s voice was still in my ear. ‘I’ll be sending you a new two-year contract. I’m pleased to offer you the second pay grade already, in recognition of everything you’ve done on this project.’
Contract! A pay rise. I struggled to register everything Bill was saying. There was a sense of relief there, vindication, but also—
Colin was 50 feet from the finish line when it happened. One moment he was up out of his saddle, baring his teeth and throwing everything into a sprint, and the next the peloton swarmed and I lost him from view.
Seb was holding his phone limply, the TV commentary still running.
‘No! At the very last second! That must feel like being run over by a freight train! The peloton absolutely flattened Gallagher, Arnim and Keller. Jonah swallowed by the whale and just as epic. That is bitter! So very bitter. It looks like Archambault might have been the first over the line, followed by De Jong, but it’s going to take a minute to disentangle that finish.
What does this mean for Gallagher’s GC chances?
What do you think? Fifth or sixth today?
But with no time advantage over the peloton and he’s gotta be running close to zero right now.
We love to see these battles, but he’s run himself dry before we’ve even reached the mountain stages. ’
I fumbled for something to hold onto and found the cool metal of a barrier with some sponsor’s name blazoned on it.
‘Leesa?’ Bill prompted, his voice suddenly sounding an ocean away.
‘Um, that’s wonderful news.’ My voice was all breath and I hoped he interpreted that as excitement.
I was supposed to be excited. I could finally tell my parents I had a real job – and start properly paying off my degrees.
I could get a lease on my own place, invite friends around – I could have friends who weren’t teammates or colleagues.
I could have a relationship that wasn’t disrupted by distance or training or psychology.
A relationship that wasn’t with Colin Gallagher.
I scanned the chaos at the finish line, men and bikes scattered, groaning and cheers, hugs and confusion. I couldn’t find Colin and Bill kept talking in my ear.
‘I’m glad to hear you’ll be accepting. Now, I’m pushed for time, but I wanted to make sure I spoke to you in person rather than a big fat contract just showing up in your inbox.
Take your time to read and then sign on the dotted line – I mean, the online document signing procedure – and send it back when you’re ready.
I’ll let you get back to it. Keep up the good work! ’
The ‘good work’ of tearing myself in two because of one rider who meant too much to me. The person who made me question what I wanted, even though he had no right. This was a moment I’d waited months for, but my mind was in so many places at once, I was struggling to care.
I somehow managed to respond to Bill as I ended the call. ‘Uh, thanks. Bye.’
The commentator’s words had merged into a buzz as I let the phone fall from my ear. I saw Tony first, grabbing a swannie and gesturing wildly towards a light pole off to one side. At the base of the pole, my gaze found him.
Colin was slumped, half-sprawled on a traffic island, legs akimbo, one gloved hand lying limp between his thighs.
His jersey was unzipped to his belly button to reveal the strap of the heartrate monitor – and the dramatic hollow of his diaphragm as his breath heaved.
His skin was shiny with sweat, the sun glinting off every sharp furrow.
But the most arresting sight was his face: eyes closed, jaw clamped, the dusty outline on his cheeks from where his sunglasses had sat. It was a look of defeat that I felt in my lungs – in my gut, my heart.
Two swannies were with him now, getting recovery fluids into him as he only half-heartedly participated. Draping his arms over their shoulders, the assistants hauled him to his feet, his wobbly legs unsteady. He looked like 207 km – that was 130 miles.
But the swannies were dragging him into the media area, where a crowd of cameras was waiting for him to talk about how he lost the stage. My stomach lurched and I had to press my knuckles to my mouth to suppress the nausea – and the tears.
God, I hated this. What have you done, Colin?
I wasn’t only talking about the stage.